CRIS ZIM! THE DISASTER CONTINUES NOT QUITE SO JUSTIFIED
by tusitalabruni
Summary: Unlovable schlub Cris Zim has been traveling the country, looking for gainful employment. He has made it south of the Mason-Dixon into Kentucky, into coal country and into Raylan Givens's life . . .


CRIS ZIM!

THE DISASTER CONTINUES

NOT QUITE SO JUSTIFIED

Zim entered the bar, shocked by how dark it was inside. He was used to sports bars where there were lots of chicks to hit on. The brightest this place got was a neon beer sign and a shaded lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. There were no chicks, just grimy men. The place stank of sweat and stale cigarette smoke. This looked like a good place to get stabbed. He remembered the warnings he'd been given, and he scratched at the tape holding his wire in place. Suddenly this didn't seem like a good idea. He thought about turning back, but he remembered what Raylan Givens had said to him.

"You back out of this, and I'll make sure you never get to sleep again."

How did he know that Zim liked to take so many naps?

He let out a tremendous sigh and sat at the bar, waiting. A scruffy guy in a wheelchair rolled over. "What can I get you, stranger?"

"Whiskey," Zim said. "I'd also like to talk to Boyd Crowder, if he's here."

The guy scrunched his eyes, looking sideways at Zim. "What business do you have with Boyd?"

"Uh . . ." What had Raylan said again? Something about coal mining? "Yeah, I dug coal with him back in the day. Just wanted to see how he's doing."

"You dug coal?" The man seemed to think that was pretty funny.

"Yeah. For about a year."

The guy smiled. "Right. Okay. Hold on." He poured the whiskey and wheeled away to the back. Moments later, a guy with wild black hair and teeth like tombstones ambled out and leaned up against the bar.

"Say stranger," he said, "I heard that you dug coal with me. What's your name?"

"Cris Zim."

"Cris Zim! Cris Zim. I don't think I've ever heard of you. How old were you when we dug coal? Eight?"

The rest of the bar laughed at him. Zim ground his teeth. "I was sixteen."

"Right." Boyd grabbed Zim's sleeve and pulled it up, showing off his well-built bicep. "Look at this, boys! That's the purtiest arm I ever seen!" As the laughter died down, Boyd's eyes narrowed like a snake's. "You don't get muscles like that from digging coal. You get 'em from going to those fruity workout places. Nope, this is what a coal digger's arm looks like." He showed his off, a block of thick muscle that did not look attractive at all. It sure looked strong, though.

"All right, maybe I don't know you," Zim said. "I just heard that you deal in certain things that I'm interested in."

All the humor went out of Boyd. "Who'd you hear that from?"

"Some guy. Dewey something-or-other."

"Dewey Crowe?"

"That's the guy."

Boyd looked at him thoughtfully. "Well, I guess he's dumb enough to blabber about something like that. What are you looking for?"

"Heroin," Zim said.

"A pretty boy like you? You don't look skinny enough to be a junkie."

"I eat a lot of crap. Heroin keeps the weight off."

Boyd laughed so hard he nearly keeled over. Everyone else giggled like schoolgirls. When the hilarity died down, Boyd slapped the bar top. "That's the first time I ever heard that one. Not bad, Cris Zim."

"Do you have some, then? How much?"

Boyd let out a deep sigh. "Search him, boys."

Two of the grimy dudes stepped over to Zim. One patted down his back, and the other patted his front. The guy on his front stopped at his chest. He ripped off Zim's shirt, showing off the mike.

Boyd grinned. "Well, how's about that." He stepped up real close to the wire. "Hello, Raylan. I hope you're getting this good. Nice try. Maybe next time."

The door opened, flooding the bar with blinding light from outside. It closed, and there stood Raylan Givens, hat and all. He strode up to the bar, looking at Zim's torn shirt. He nodded to it. "I believe that counts as assault, Boyd."

"He didn't do it," one of the goons said. "I did it."

"Sorry about that," Boyd said. "You know how things are, Raylan."

"I could let it go," Raylan said. "How about it, Zim? Do you feel assaulted?"

Every one of Boyd's men stared bullet holes through him. If Zim had a shirt on, he would have pulled his collar. "Uh . . . no."

"You sure about that?" Boyd asked. He also looked very threatening.

"Positive."

"Too bad, so sad, Raylan," Boyd said. "Better luck next time. Now please. Get the hell out of my bar."

Raylan smiled, but there was no humor in it. "Come on, Zim. Let's go."

As they headed to the door, Boyd laughed. "Goodbye, Cris Zim! I'm sure the pleasure was all yours."

There was just something about the way Boyd said his name that Zim couldn't stand. It irritated him deep down. His rage boiled over, and he couldn't stop himself. He whirled around gave Boyd the finger. "Fuck you!"

"Fuck me?" Boyd laughed. "Fuck you."

"NO! Fuck _you_!" Zim shouted.

"Zim," Raylan said. "If you utter one more word, I'm going to—"

"That's right, Raylan," Boyd said. "Put your man in check and get him out of here."

Zim roared and rushed Boyd, vaulting over the bar. The guy in the wheelchair whipped out a pistol, ready for action. He pushed himself up, trying to see over the bar so he could aim.

Raylan drew down. "Drop it, Johnny!"

Two of Boyd's scumbag customers drew down, too. One said, "Drop it, asshole."

"Fuck you!" Johnny shouted. He took aim.

Raylan, sweating, shot Johnny in the shoulder, forcing him to drop the gun. He then whirled on the two other guys, and as fast as he was, he couldn't outshoot them. They riddled him with bullets, and Raylan dropped.

The door burst open, and two deputy marshals rushed in, guns blazing. The tall man, Zim thought his name was Tim, took careful precision shots, taking down half of the room on his own. The other, Rachel maybe?, didn't take so much time, spraying bad guys with bullets. It took them two seconds to shut everyone down.

Zim and Boyd rose behind the bar, their hands up as far as they would go. Tim aimed at them both, and Rachel moved forward to handcuff Boyd.

As soon as that was done, Tim looked down at Raylan. "Would you look at that? I thought the son of a bitch was bulletproof."

"Why the fuck was everyone shooting?!" Zim yelled. "I could have gotten killed!"

"That would have been a loss," Tim said.

"God," Rachel said. She looked at Raylan's body as she pushed Boyd toward the door.

"Poor Raylan," Boyd said. "I wouldn't have wished that on him. We dug coal together."

"I thought you were arch enemies," Zim said.

"Of course. I respected the man, though."

"Get going," Rachel said. "Tim?" She nodded her head toward Zim.

"I got him." Tim grabbed Zim's shoulder and shoved him toward the door.

Outside, blinded by the light, Zim squinted, trying to adjust. He wished he had sunglasses. Then he remembered that Raylan had some hanging from the V of his shirt. He was about to go back for them when someone grabbed his arm.

"Just where the hell do you think you're going?"

Shit. It was Art. Art hated his guts.

"Uh . . . nowhere."

"You're absolutely wrong! You are getting the hell out of here! You are fired, and if I had my druthers, I'd beat you within an inch of your life and let you drown in your own blood! Do you understand me?!"

Zim let out a tremendous sigh. "Yeah."

"Get out of here! You're lucky I don't have you jailed!"

Great. Now he had to get another job. Maybe he should try Miami?

CRIS ZIM WILL RETURN . . . NEXT FRIDAY!


End file.
